


Happy Happy Day

by jooliewrites



Series: Coliver & Addie Verse [4]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Adoption, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Kid Fic, M/M, Married!Coliver, domestic angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor accepted long ago that his days of sleeping in were long since past. Fatherhood and mornings spent lounging in bed just didn’t go hand-in-hand. </p><p>Most of the time he and Oliver gave her a little bit of a hard time; lightly teasing that ‘It’s so early, I’m not sure if the sun’s even up yet’ and the like, all of which she giggles off as she tugs at their quilt and pulls them downstairs with requests for waffles and orange juice and morning cartoons.</p><p>But today is different. Today neither of them will issue a single groan of complaint when Addie bursts in before the sun. Because today is not a normal day. </p><p>Today is Adoption Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Happy Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for everyone who has asked for more Addie!Verse. Apologizes it's taken so long.  
> Hope you enjoy, loves!  
> -Jules xoxo

Connor accepted long ago that his days of sleeping in were long since past. Fatherhood and mornings spent lounging in bed just didn’t go hand-in-hand.

Between Christmases and birthdays, nightmares and thunderstorms, it’s a miracle if Addie let them make it to the alarm before bounding in their room – a riot of energy and sleep-mussed curls.

Most of the time he and Oliver gave her a little bit of a hard time; lightly teasing that ‘It’s so early, I’m not sure if the sun’s even up yet’ and the like, all of which she giggles off as she tugs at their quilt and pulls them downstairs with requests for waffles and orange juice and morning cartoons.

But today is different. Today neither of them will issue a single groan of complaint when Addie bursts in before the sun. Because today is not a normal day.

Today is Adoption Day.

+

“Wake up!” Addie screams as she scrambles through their bedroom door with Waldo chasing in after.

She grips handfuls of the quilt as she scales the bed. A “Sorry, Papa” is given in passing as she knees Connor in the back, while climbing over him to plop herself between them both. The dog, however, rounds to the foot of the bed and makes it up in a single bound, landing solidly on Oliver’s shins just as Addie leans over to pry one of Oliver’s eyes open. “Wake up, Daddy. It’s today!”

Connor huffs a little as he sits up, his hand pressing into his lower back and trying to massage the ache away. “Mornin’ Baby,” he mumbles.

“Mornin’, Papa!” Addie says, her smile wide and lopsided. She turns to see Oliver groping on his nightstand for his glasses. “Did they fall?” Well practiced, she scrambles over Oliver to slide down his side of the bed and look for the dark frames on the floor. “I don’t see ‘em.”

“Here,” Connor hands Oliver the glasses that were on his nightstand and plumps up the pillows up behind them to lean back against.

“How did they end up over—?” Oliver begins and then cuts himself off at Connor’s sly wink—memories of last night, well after they’d put Addie to bed, coming back— and Oliver’s smile is knowing as he slips on the frames.

Addie’s head pops back up. “Good. You found them.” Oliver helps lift her up on the bed this time and she plops back between them. “Mornin’, Daddy.”

“Good morning, Adda-girl.” Oliver snuggles in close, kissing her cheek. “Happy Adoption Day.”

“Happy Adoption Day, Adds,” Connor says and presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Happy Adoption Day!” she echoes loud and cheerful, raising both her little fists in celebration. Beaming at both of them, she links an arm through each of theirs and settles in. “You have to tell the story now.” But then, before Connor and Oliver can begin, she yells, “Wait! I gotta get it!” and runs out of the room. Confused as ever, Doe yelps twice and follows Addie off in a run.

Oliver smiles, watching the pair of them tear out of the room, before turning to Connor. “Happy Adoption Day,” he whispers, leaning in for a kiss.

Connor cups Oliver’s cheek and sweeps a thumb lightly along Oliver’s jaw. “Happy day indeed.”

“Got it!” Addie cries, holding the picture frame aloft as she and the dog both run back in.

Connor reaches down this time to help her up and she crawls on her knees back to her place securely between them while Doe bounds up to curl near their feet. Settling back in, Addie rests the frame on her knees and relinks her arms through theirs.

Leaning down to rest his head against hers, Oliver’s eyes water a little as he looks at the picture. He sees it everyday – copies sit on their dresser and Addie’s, one on the mantle another in a magnet frame on the fridge – but Oliver doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of looking at it. There, under the harsh, florescent lighting of the hospital, are the three of them together, as a family for the first time.

In the picture, Addie is eighteen-hours old and Oliver and Connor look terrified. They were both so nervous and new; afraid of stumbling too much in front of Trisha, their adoption agent, they’d settled on the first pose they could manage - sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Addie held between them - and froze for Trisha to take the shot.

“We look so young,” Connor murmurs.

“We were so young,” Oliver says.

“Papa, your face looks naked,” Addie tells him, referring to the clean-shaven Connor in the picture.

“I was going for a look. Respectability,” Connor tells her and lifts a hand to rub over his beard. “You don’t like it? I was thinking of going back.”

“No!” Addie lifts a hand to his cheek to rub at the coarse hair. “I like your scratchers.”

“My scratchers? _Scratchers?_ ” Connor’s tone is full of indignation and he sneaks a hand to tickle under Addie’s arm. “These are not scratchers,” he says, even as he busses his cheeks against hers, lightly scratching the smooth skin of her cheeks with the coarse hair on his own. Addie giggles grow to full, belly laughs as his beard tickles her cheeks just as he’s tickling under her arm.

“Stop! Stop!” Addie cries breathlessly and Connor pulls back. She giggles again and rubs her hands over the beard. “You gotta keep ‘em, Papa.”

“Okay. That’s one vote.” Connor peeks up to wink at Oliver. “What’d you say, Daddy?”

Oliver rubs a hand over Connor’s cheek, covering Addie’s. “Keep.” His voice is dark and deep and something curls inside Connor’s at the look in Oliver’s eye.

“Out voted again.” Connor breathes out, breaking the spell Oliver’s cast over him by smiling down at their daughter – who is oblivious between them.

“Yes. We win!” Addie smiles up at Oliver as she resettles herself and he turns over his palm for her to high-five.

“You two always win,” Connor says good-naturedly as he inches in close to Addie’s side and wraps an arm around her and Oliver. They always managed to win and, as he looked back down at the picture on Addie’s lap, Connor can admit to himself that they always would.

“So,” Addie says after a moment, tracing a finger over the three of them in the photo, “Can you tell it now?”

“Well, let’s see,” Oliver begins, then teases, “Was it four or five years ago now, Connor?”

“Five!” Addie holds up her hand with all five fingers splayed out and tossing Oliver A Look over her shoulder. “Five. It was five. I am five.”

“That you are,” Oliver’s voice is dreamy with memory of memories of this day five years ago but also of birthday celebrated just two days prior. How has it already been five years? “It was five years ago…”

 

_\+ Five years ago +_

 

“I’m just not sure about the yellow.” Connor puts down his paintbrush and steps back to take in the wall they’d finished. The swab in the store hadn’t looked so…Big Bird. “It’s kinda bright.”

“It is.” Looking at it now, Oliver worries his thumbnail. Aren’t babies’ eyes super sensitive? Wasn’t that in one of those books they’d read? Between the small mountain of books and dozens of blogs they’re reading, Oliver isn’t sure anymore what’s fact, what’s fiction, and what’s a bit of both. “Maybe it won’t look so…blinding once we put the crib and stuff in. Hang pictures and curtains and crap on the walls.”

“Could work,” Connor says doubtfully. They’re going to need to hang a lot of shit on the walls to tone that down. “Also, isn’t yellow kinda over done for nurseries?”

“Maybe,” Oliver agrees, stepping over, hands on his hips, to stand next to his husband. “But I like it. It’s happy.”

“It’s cliché.”

“It’s a nursery.” Oliver side-eyes him. They are not having this discussion again. Especially not with one wall already painted. “It’s supposed to be a little cliché.”

In theory, Connor agrees but he’s also a little unwilling to let this point go. “I’m just saying that maybe we shouldn’t have dismissed the whole grey-chrome-spaceship nursery theme so quickly.”

Oliver chuckles. “You found that picture in _Details_ magazine.”

“Where it came from is not important, it was a good idea.” They take in the bright yellow wall in silence for a beat. “There was also the black, white, and red theme.”

“That looked like a sex dungeon.”

“It did not!”

“I’m not putting our child to sleep in room that looks like it’s covered in blood.”

“Yes, that red was a little too red but the basic concept—”

“We agreed on yellow.” Oliver snakes his arm around Connor’s waist, stepping close and tilting his head on Connor’s shoulder. “It may be boring and overdone and cliché but it’s also happy and fun and, most importantly, appropriate for children.”

“I know but…”

Connor trails off to scowl at the wall but there’s something in his tone that makes Oliver lift and cock his head to the side. “What’s up, Connor?”

Connor blows out a breath. “I don’t know.” He wraps his arm around Oliver’s shoulder and pulls his husband in a breath tighter. “Just—just got a weird feeling.”

“About?” Oliver prompts after a breath.

“About—” Connor trails off and steps out of Oliver’s hold to squat down and fuss with the paintbrushes. Putting the lid back on the can and gathering up the brushes that need to be cleaned. “I don’t know,” Connor finally admits. “About if it’s too early to paint or too late or—I don’t know. Just a weird feeling.”

Oliver puts his hands in the pockets of his old, paint-splattered jeans. “We talked to Trisha a few days ago. Everything’s looking good.”

“Everything was looking good before too,” Connor snaps. “We were all set and painted and put together that fucking crib and then—”

Oliver waits a beat and when Connor doesn’t finish the thought Oliver does it for him, “And then she changed her mind.”

“I know what she fucking did, Oliver,” Connor fires back and instantly hates himself for it. He tosses down the brushes to stalk over the window and scowl at the traffic on their street. Where did this anger come from? “I was there. I remember.”

Connor remembers how in grief and heartbreak they turned away from each other instead of coming together. He remembers how the sonogram stayed on their fridge for weeks while they ignored the nursery – with it’s pale green walls and freshly assembled crib and dresser full of impossibly tiny baby clothes – for longer. How the door to this room had been closed so long that seeing it wide open now with warm sunlight spilling in through the tall windows still made Connor uneasy.

Connor remembers how he and Oliver tacitly ignored each other for weeks. He would get up early to spend the morning at the gym and Oliver would stay late at the office doing whatever it was Oliver did. And how, on the nights they were both home at the same time, they couldn’t even eat dinner in the same room; Oliver would spread out at the dining room table with newspapers and books and the like blocking any seat hear him while Connor took his plate back into the office to eat in silence while he worked.

Connor remembers coming home early from court one day to find Oliver in the nursery, disassembling the crib with a baseball bat. Oliver paused when he spotted Connor in the doorway and straightened. Standing tall and proud, shoulders back and head high, he reminded Connor of a soldier – a warrior battling demons that lurked in the shadows of his soul. Oliver wordlessly held out the bat and Connor took it. Adjusting his grip once, Connor checked that Oliver was clear and swung. He didn’t realize he was crying until the job was finished and the crib was a mass of broken wood and nails in their perfect nursery. Connor glanced over at Oliver, whose eyes were also red, and Oliver simply nodded once, giving Connor the go ahead to start on the dresser.

They’d burned the pieces of the crib and dresser in their backyard and called Goodwill to come pick up the clothes and toys and stuffed animals they’d left in neat boxes on their front porch. That weekend they’d picked up two gallons of Pure White and painted over the pale green walls with little animals stenciled playfully in the corners until the room looked barren again. All of it done with hardly a word between them.

Connor remembers when Oliver had knocked on the door of his office late one night. Connor’d been so surprised that Oliver was knocking (since when did Oliver need to knock?) that he hadn’t caught what Oliver said at first and asked him to repeat.

“I said that I was going to makes some calls tomorrow but wanted to give you a heads up that I think—it’s probably better—” Oliver shook his head to stop from rambling. “I’m thinking of moving out.”

“What?” If Oliver’d walked over and slapped him across the face, Connor would have been less surprised. “Why?”

“It just seems like the best thing to do. For both of us.”

“Bullshit.”

“Connor,” Oliver began with a roll of his eyes.

“No. This is fucking bullshit.” Connor stood then, so quickly his chair fell over. “You aren’t moving. You aren’t leaving me. It’s not happening.” _I’m not losing you, too. I_ can’t _lose you, too._

“Connor, be reasonable.”

“I am being fucking reasonable!” Connor shouted. “You aren’t leaving. We’ll figure this shit out.”

“How?” Oliver shot back. “How are we going to ‘figure this shit out’? We aren’t even talking to each other anymore.”

“Okay.” In three strides, Connor was around the desk and reaching for Oliver’s hand. He tried to ignore the hurt when Oliver pulled away to cross his arms over his chest. There were so many little hurts between them now, what was one more? “Okay. We’ll talk.”

“About what?” Oliver sounded so tired that Connor had to shove his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out, pulling Oliver in close and letting him rest. Weeks or months ago it would have been wanted but now something like that would just push Oliver away.

“Anything,” Connor told him. “Anything you want. We’ll start now. Talk to me.”

So they did. They sat on opposite sides of their dining room table and talked about nothing at all. Stupid shit going on at work and gossiping about their friends and complaining about family members. They didn’t talk about anything of importance – not the sonogram, not the nursery, not the fact that _this_ was the most they’d seen each other in months – but they were talking. Connor figured that had to count for something.

“Well,” Oliver said as the conversation dwindled. There was only so much meaningless conversation you could have with your husband while you avoided talking about how much both of you were hurting. How your house seemed to have too much space all of sudden. How empty it seemed with just your two sets of footfalls echoing off the rich hardwood. How your arms felt empty at night without anything – anyone – to hold. “It’s late. I’m going to head to bed.”

“Okay.” Connor nodded and raised a hand in goodbye as Oliver tucked his chair back in. “Night.”

“Night.” Oliver took a few slow steps out and then paused at the head of the table. Turning around, he hesitated before slowly walking around to stand over Connor’s chair.

Lifting his face, Connor stared up at Oliver in silence, a question in his eyes that never passed his lips. Oliver leaned down and gently brushed Connor’s hair away to kiss his forehead; Connor’s eyes fell closed and he held his breath. Connor’d never considered himself a religious man but that kiss felt like a benediction, a blessing that wiped away weeks of resentment and silence. Ending the kiss, Oliver stood up straight and made to leave when Connor, on impulse and need, wrapped his arms around Oliver’s waist and pressed his face into Oliver’s stomach.

“I love you,” Connor whispered into the folds of Oliver’s dress shirt. The words felt foreign on his tongue and he tried not to think how long it’d been since he said them. “I love you, Oliver.”

Oliver’s hand trembled as he placed it on Connor’s head. The words took him back, years back, to their wedding. To Connor, standing tall and proud in front of everyone who mattered to them, declaring loudly for all to hear, “I love you, Oliver” before their officiant had even begun.

“I love you.” Oliver’s voice was rough as he held Connor close. “I love you, too.”

Connor wasn’t sure how long they were there, holding each other in the silence of an ending day, but that night had been a beginning. It had led to other nights up late talking long and deep, early morning breakfasts and quick lunches together during the week. It led to sessions with a therapist, working on issues like communication and trust and communication again. The pair of them dug up skeletons long thought buried and turned over rocks they’d previously both ignored.

From that one night, they’d managed to tear themselves back from that edge to somehow, someway, end up back here again. Painting nursery walls and decoding crib assembly instructions.

“Connor?” Oliver’s light hand on his shoulder pulls him back and Connor hums as he watches the neighbor kid jaywalk across the street.

“Connor.” This time Oliver tugs Connor around by the shoulder and Connor easily goes. Taking Connor’s hands in his, Oliver squeezes once. “Talk to me.”

The breath he lets out is ragged and his voice is barely a whisper but he gets the words out. “What if it happens again?” He licks his lips and looks up at the other walls where you can still see a bit of pale green peeking through the white. Connor’s eyes are red rimmed when he meets Oliver’s. “Oliver—I can’t again—I just—”

Oliver crushes Connor in, arms tight bands around Connor’s back. That thought’s been in the back of his mind too. How could it not be? Saving every receipt for new toys and leaving all the tags on the clothes they re-bought. Refusing to let Connor’s sister throw them another baby shower and talking about it as little as possible with his coworkers.

Even this, waiting until the last possible moment to reassemble the nursery. If Trisha didn’t have a home visit scheduled for this upcoming week, Oliver wasn’t sure when they would have done any of this at all – maybe they would have waited until their daughter was safely and wholly theirs before committing to a theme.

“It’s going to be okay,” Oliver whispers.

“I know,” Connor mumbles from the crook of Oliver’s shoulder.

“We’re stronger than we were before,” Oliver continues. “So—so even if—” Unwilling to give voice to his deepest fear.

“I know.” Connor’s arms tighten around Oliver’s waist in understanding.

At a loss for anything else to say, Oliver goes with the only thing that really matters. “I love you.”

Connor lifts his face to rest his forehead against Oliver’s. “I love you, too.”

For a moment longer they stand together, breathing in each other and the thick scent of paint in the air, before Connor pulls away with, “Okay. Let’s finish this thing.”

+

Two and a half walls are done when Oliver’s phone rings.

Grateful for the distraction, he puts down his roller and digs the phone out of his pocket. A rock falls in his stomach when he glances at the caller ID. What could Trisha be calling about on a Saturday afternoon?

With a gesture to Connor to cut the music, Oliver answers the call. “Hi, Trisha. Didn’t expect to hear from you today?”

“Well you know me,” she says with a hearty laugh. “My work is never done.”

“Too true.” Oliver laughs too but his is high and choked. He tries to keep the tremor out of his voice when he says “We’re getting ready for your visit next week.”

“Putting final touches on the nursery?” she asks.

Looking around the half painted room, Oliver winces. “Something like that.”

“That’s great to hear but that’s not really why I called—”

“Wait!” Oliver’s quick to cut her off. He can hear the _I’ve Got News_ in her voice and isn’t listening to it alone. “Connor’s here. I’m going to put you on speaker, okay?” Oliver clicks over so Trisha’s voice fills the room and takes Connor’s hand in his.

“Oh,” Trisha says, briefly taken aback. “Hi, Connor.”

“Hey, Trish.” Connor squeezes Oliver’s hand in his. “What’s up?”

“Well,” she hedges, debating how to phrase this before electing to just come out with it. “Your birthmother’s gone into labor.”

Her voice echoes in the quiet, empty room and Connor and Oliver stare at each other.

“What?” Oliver finally asks. His hearts beating double time and the rock in his stomach’s fallen away; his entire stomach feels like it’s fallen away. He feels dizzy and lightheaded and sick. And, glancing up at Connor, Oliver sees he’s not the only one. “What?”

“Your birthmother’s gone into labor,” she needlessly repeats.

“Are you sure?” Connor demands. “Are you really sure?”

“I’ve just spoken with her mother,” Trisha explains. “They’ve checked into the hospital. The doctor had just finished her initial examination. Everything looks good.”

“But, Caitlin isn’t due for six-weeks,” Oliver says, the alarm ripe in his voice. All of this is happening so fast. They were supposed to have six-weeks. They haven’t even finished painting the room.

“Babies come on their own time.” Connor and Oliver are both too panicked to hear the smile in her voice. God, this is the best part of her job.

“But—it’s early. It’s too early.” Connor’s excitement is tampered by the thought, the heart-stopping thought. “Is something wrong? Is she okay? The baby?”

“The doctor said the fetal heartbeat is strong and Caitlin is doing well,” Trisha explains. “They are going to closely monitor her but there is no cause for concern right now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Oliver wipes a sweaty palm over his forehead. “What do we do? What do we do now?”

“Yeah.” Connor’s breathless; he can’t stop thinking of everything they need to do. It’s all too much. “Do we need to—?”

“I need you two to say put right now,” Trisha says firmly. This was the plan the two of them and Caitlin had agreed to weeks ago. Babies may come on their own time but plans still needed to be followed. “I’ll keep you updated as I hear.”

“Okay,” Oliver says again. “Okay. We can do that.”

“Finish the nursery!” Trisha lightly scolds.

Connor huffs out a laugh that’s also a sob. “We will.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

“Okay. Okay.” Oliver can’t think of another word to say. “That sounds good.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Thank you, Trisha.”

“Yeah,” Connor doesn’t try to hide the sob this time. “Thanks.”

They hear the smile in her voice this time. “It’s my pleasure. We’ll talk soon.”

After ‘goodbye’s, Oliver ends the call and they both stare at the phone in his hand for a breathless moment.

“We’re going to be fathers,” Oliver whispers, still staring at the phone as his eyes well.

“We are,” Connor breathes out.

They both look up then and their eyes catch as grins spread, huge and giddy, across their faces. Connor crushes Oliver to him and, once again, they make a single shadow on the freshly painted wall.

They are going to be fathers.

+

They’re finishing up the last wall when Trisha calls again with an update. Things are looking good and progressing as normal.

Another update comes in the middle of assembling the crib. They take a break, leaning their backs against the newly assembled dresser, to take the call. Caitlin’s heading into the delivery room.

Then, just before midnight, they’re sitting in the doorframe, literally watching paint dry, when Trisha calls again. Oliver’s lightly dozing on Connor’s shoulder but sits up straight at the shrill of the phone.

Connor’s a little breathless as he answers the call, putting it on speaker. “Hi, Trisha.”

“Hi, Daddies,” is all she says and the happy tears they’ve held in all night burst forth.

 

_\+ Present day +_

 

Addie smiles as Oliver comes to her favorite part of the story. “And then we met!”

“Well, first we drove out to Ohio.” Oliver brushes back the fall of her hair to tuck it behind her ear. “Then we met.”

“What was I like?” Addie asks Connor.

Tiny, Connor thinks. Impossibly tiny.

The first time they’d laid eyes on her she was in an incubator. The doctors assured them it was a precaution since she was nearly six-weeks early and a little underweight. But still, seeing their new daughter hooked up to breathing machines and tubes and monitors had made Connor’s blood run cold.

“You were so little,” Connor tells her. “Your foot was as long as my pinkie.”

Addie pulls up her foot to compare the sizes now and Connor can’t wrap his head around it. Dear God, they were lucky.

“We were there a few days,” Oliver says. It had been the longest week of Oliver’s life. Staying at her side at the NICU as much as they could and living out of a hotel, wanting nothing more than to take their daughter home. “You had to spend some time in the hospital.”

“’Cuz I was early.” Addie’s looking down at the picture again, she doesn’t see how she was drowning in the onesie she was wearing but Connor and Oliver do.

“That’s right,” Oliver says.

“I was just too excited to meet you,” she tells them, looking up with a smile. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

“We were excited to meet you too, Adds,” Connor says. “Just next time, if you could keep in there for a little while longer.”

Addie giggles as the old joke. “Okay, Papa.”

The three of them look back down at the picture again and Connor and Oliver wait to see if she’s going to ask anything more. Sometimes, when they talk about her birth, Addie is full of questions about Caitlin and Caitlin’s family and her birthfather. Questions they answer as best they can but with answers always seem to leave her wanting. Each year her questions get bigger and more difficult to answer. They dread the day she asks something they can't answer.

But this morning looks like it’s not going to be one for more questions when Addie looks up at Connor with doe eyes and asks, “Can we have French Toast for Adoption Day breakfast?”

Connor huffs out a laugh. “I think we can do that.”

For a breath more, before Addie and Doe scramble off the bed and race down the stairs, they all take in the picture again.

This very first picture of them as a family.

Happy happy day indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
